


let me in (everything starts at your skin)

by LettieB



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Hiccstrid - Freeform, Marriage, No Toothless, and are HAPPY, and fall in love, and have kids, as in, contains book elements, first movie didn't happen, happily arranged, let's say valka led them to the happy dragon land and call it a day, no dragons AU, no valka, not historically accurate at all, sorry - Freeform, still movie-verse viking age, very little conflict, yeah I just wanted to write a story where my dumb kids got arranged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-05-12 17:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19234081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettieB/pseuds/LettieB
Summary: They haven’t seen a dragon in years. Most of them have stopped wondering what happened.She wakes up this morning to a miserable, gloomy day, thick fog rolling over the sea. It’s not until the skies clear, not until she’s boarding the ship that she spots the dragon head in the bow, and she realizes.She’s stopped wondering too.She’s nineteen when the chief comes knocking.By the time he leaves, she’s engaged to his son.**The no-dragon, happily arranged marriage hiccstrid that I wrote as fanservice to msyelf and decided to share with the world.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been sitting in my laptop for perhaps... Three years now? And it's been a word document titled "The even more indulgent AU than the most indulgent AU ever". Because I have been writing secret fanservice stories for myself that never get past a couple topics and half a dozen scenes because I keep getting pulled in all directions.  
> But this one stuck.  
> As mentioned in the tags, this has very little conflict, and no dragons, because I just wanted to write an arranged marriage extravaganza with my dumb children. No point to this story. That's right. It's just romance. And Hiccup being a feminist. And a great husband. Because I wanted to.  
> Enjoy this pointless disaster.

They’re six years old.

Astrid is a hellion, a little warrior in the making, axe too big for her skinny arms to lift, but not enough that she can’t drag it around, and anyway it’s more for show because if need be, she can bite like the hounds of Hel and kick up a storm. She’s on her way to being the best shield maiden this island has ever seen.

Hiccup’s… not what he was supposed to be. He’s the son of the chief, he should have been the biggest, the greatest, the strongest of them all, but he’s all wrong. He doesn’t grow as fast as the other boys, doesn’t wrestle with the other boys, doesn’t follow his dad’s orders like the other boys. He’s always sick, every winter, without fail, and sometimes he falls ill on summers as well. The adults whisper under their breaths, like they think she can’t hear them, like she couldn’t understand them, but she’s grown enough to know. They’re waiting for the day he’ll get sick and never get better.

She sees his stupid freckled face, and his stupid happy smile with the missing tooth, and the stupid little giggles, and the way he skips through the forest when he’s off doing things like hunting for trolls and it’s stupid, stupid, stupid, but she’s also kind of sorry for him.

Until the day she hears her mother laughing with the other women about her tiny valkyrie having a crush on the chief’s wee son. She is mortified. She does _not_ have a crush on _Hiccup_! She looks at him because he’s weird, because he is always, always alone, because the adults say he’s going to die soon, and yet, every winter, without fail, he springs out of his sick bed – skinny, small, but breathing.

He is a strange, strange boy, and Astrid wants nothing to do with him.

The next time she sees him, she marches right up to him. Shoves him, sends him tripping and stumbling to the ground. Yells out loud enough for their mothers’ to hear “I’M NOT GOING TO MARRY YOU!” and runs away before her mother or her sisters catch up to give her an earful about being nice to her peers.

She’s going to be a shield maiden. She’s going to kill dragons. She is not going to marry anyone, much less the runty-heir-who-wouldn’t-die.

* * *

They’re twelve.

For some reason Snotlout has put it inside his head that she even remotely tolerates him. It bothers her a lot, but it also gives her an excuse to beat the living day lights out of him with no adult reprimands. The other kids group together and follow his lead, but they’re not exactly friends and they don’t particularly like each other. Snotlout hangs around her like a pest, and the twins hang around Snotlout for the free violence, and Fishlegs sort of just lags behind, awkward and uncomfortable because he doesn’t know what else he is supposed to do.

Astrid doesn’t pay them any mind, she is a warrior in the making now, she’s passed the Pirate Program with flying colors, she has a real axe and not only can she lift it, she can throw it farther than her older brother and sometimes she can beat him in a fair fight (when he’s tired). She is her family’s pride and joy and an asset to her tribe, and she soaks it up. She’s scouring the island for someone who will challenge her, she wants more, needs more, needs to be the best, will be the best. Dragon training is coming and when it’s time, she’ll be ready.

Hiccup’s no warrior, despite his father’s best efforts. He’s the son of the chief, he should be the strongest and the greatest of them all, but he can’t lift a hammer, he can’t swing an axe, he can’t throw a bola. He can’t walk outside without somehow tripping over his own feet and causing some kind of calamity. Stoick’s last hope of turning him into a warrior was the Pirate Program, and Gobber had tried his best, but the boy was very small and very skinny, wielded swords with his left hand, kept speaking Latin to the people they were supposed to raid, managed to sink two ships before they even reached the Peaceables' Island. His failure to do anything right resulted in the program’s first ever expulsion.  

He’s shipped off to be the blacksmith’s apprentice, almost as a punishment, but when he turns out to be decent enough at it they all sigh in relief, they think it’s the end of the issue. And it is, in a way, but it gets worse before it gets better. In his desperate wish to please, he creates a series of disastrous inventions that invariably end with the village up in flames, and what had once been slight disdain at the boy’s eccentricity and incapacity to fit in turned to full on contempt.

He’s a quiet, constant presence in the forge now, handing Gobber his tools, mending shields, sharpening weapons. And it’s not like she follows him around to see what he’s doing, but when she drops by the forge to get her axe sharpened he’s just always… there. He’s still small, still skinny, still freckle faced, and weird, and it’s still so stupid, but he doesn’t smile all that much anymore, or laughs, and she knows why.

 _He’s_ not his father’s pride and joy, or the tribe’s. He’s the butt of every joke, the walking disaster, the useless, and she’d been one of the people woken up in the middle of the night to put out the fires he’d started enough times to resent him too… but when she catches him in the forge, bent over the counter working on an impressive detail on a sword handle, with the slightest twist on the corner of his lips, it does something strange to her chest. He’s got such an air of quiet content.

She’s a shield maiden, she’s going to kill dragons, she has no time for this, she needs to train and she wants nothing to do with him. But that doesn’t stop the warm, soothing wave of relief that washes over her every time she sees that little smile.

The heir who wouldn’t die, shamed and scorned, relegated to blacksmith apprentice, hidden away in the forge like the village’s dirty secret. But still alive. Still kicking.

She guesses there’s some strength in surviving when everyone else hoped you wouldn’t.

She’d never tell him though.

* * *

They’re fifteen and something—something’s wrong with the dragons.

There hasn’t been a raid in months. It wasn’t much at first, an extra day between the usual raid schedule, then a week, then two, and then they realized they’d gone a full winter without one single stolen sheep.

They feasted and rejoiced at the time, but refused to believe it was over. They’d thought it was a phase, the calm before the storm, they’d kept the provisions guarded and their weapons close. They’d been killing dragons for three generations, a war like that doesn’t just… Stop.

But the next winter comes and goes and the storm is yet to come. They face a lone Changewing in Snoggletog, and a pair of half-starved Nightmares so weakened they barely put up a fight. When the Thaw rolls around they haven’t seen a beast in the sky in months.

They are hesitant to say it’s over, but it sure feels final. And it might mean victory, but it leaves them all with a bitter taste in their mouths. Vikings fight their own battles, they win their wars with blood and grime and sacrifice. Vikings don’t win wars by default. There’s no honor in outliving your enemy. They’ve been fighting dragons for so long it is more than just a case of defending their land, it’s become a part of who they are as a village, their identity as a people. Losing their lifelong enemies like this – it feels a bit like they’ve lost too.

She’s been a warrior her whole life. She’d been through dragon training, been top of her class, she’d been picked by the gods to slay the dragon, and she’d reveled in it. Except when the time came, it wasn’t the glorious, honorable fight she’d expected. She’d faced a sickly gronkle, whose moves were so slow and pained, when she’d dealt the killing blow it felt like mercy, like putting the creature out of its misery. She’d been startled to find herself feeling sorry for it.

That had been the last dragon she’d ever seen.

She is finally a real Viking, finally the best warrior, finally the best at killing dragons.

And there is no dragon to be killed.

When she throws her axe on the forge counter this time, Gobber sends her a sympathetic frown and with the subtlety of a rampaging yak tells her she can go on her merry way ‘cause there’s no need to sharpen the thing anymore. He babbles loudly for a while and leaves the place whistling a happy tune, and she is so angry, so, so angry, and so confused, and so lost, she can feel her fists trembling with the fury she’s trying to hold back. When she feels the tug on her axe’s handle, she nearly chops the person’s fingers off.

Hiccup’s looking at her, face twisted in a grimace. He’s grown a bit more, but it’s still not enough, he’s still smaller than the others, still stuck inside the forge all day, still fails to be a proper Viking, still a walking disappointment, still the village screwup…

He pries the axe from her death grip, doesn’t mention her white knuckles and shaking hands, or the slight trembling of the lip she’s got her teeth buried in. He looks her in the eye – maybe for the first time in his life. He tells her he’s got it.

A strangled sound leaves her throat in a bitter laugh. “You’ve heard Gobber, what do I need this axe for now?”

His eyes pierce hers, dead serious. There’s no sarcastic remark or awkward stuttering this time. He says, “Something killed those dragons, and it wasn’t us.”

He’s still too small, too clumsy, too different, but that day she finds out he’s clever.

* * *

They’re eighteen.

A lot has changed over the past few years.

Peaceful times don’t have as much need for dragon killing Vikings, but they do need bread-making Vikings, house-building Vikings, problem-solving Vikings. Astrid goes fishing with her father, follows her brother on hunting trips. Hiccup… turns out to be a problem-solving Viking.

A lot has changed, and perhaps what’s changed the most is Hiccup’s stand in the tribe.

When there’s a shortage of crops due to the growth in population, he finds a way to divert the stream to the fields down south. When a bout of the eel pox breaks out and his father is down with a high fever, he’s the one who leads the few healthy ones on a trip to healer’s island. When a lightning storm tears down the great hall’s roof, he organizes the rebuilding. And all the contempt for the strange boy who wouldn’t fit in starts to slowly turn into tolerance.

There are no dragons to kill, but there’s a lot to do. For the first time in perhaps hundreds of years they can plan for the future, because it’s not going to be torn down overnight. The warriors retire the weapons and take out their sickles, their looms and carving tools. The village starts to look less like one big pile of charred wood cobbled together in a hurry between dragon attacks; it starts to look, and feel, like a village.

There are sheep grazing in rolling green pasture and fields of growing crops. They organize a market day for village trade, and it buzzes with the energy of people – so many people – going back and forth, laughing and living. There is a sudden (ridiculous) increase in weddings, and there’s never been so many babies around. Her parents start subtly pointing her suitors and dropping hints about contracts, and it terrifies her.

_And she can’t stop looking at Hiccup._

She’s not quite sure when it happened or how she missed it, but Hiccup is taller than her. It’s startling. Logically, she knows it must have happened gradually, no one goes to bed one night and wakes up two feet taller, but that’s what if feels like, as if his body finally caught up with all the growing he should’ve done years ago and decided to do it all at once. One day she spots him beside the Chief and – while his father would usually tower over his scrawny frame – Hiccup now stands to a respectful height, up to the Chief’s shoulders. Further observation proved that, in fact, he is taller than most teens in their age group. He’d shot past Snotlout sometime mid-summer, he only lost to Fishlegs.

Hiccup, who’d been so mocked, so mistreated for being small, who’d been deemed a runt upon birth. Whose very chances of survival were questioned on a daily basis until very recently.

He’s not the big, burly boy you’d associate with Stoick the Vast’s son, but he’s all lean muscle and sharp jaw line and patchy stubble – which she knows, because she _keeps looking at him._ And she’s not the only one. The younger girls whisper to each other, covering up giggles when he walks into the great hall for supper. She catches the tail end of more than one conversation between matrons and council members that falls immediately flat as soon as they spot Hiccup in the distance.

Everyone is looking.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand what they’re thinking. She wishes making sense of her own feelings was as easy.

They haven’t seen a dragon in years.

Most of them have stopped wondering what happened.

She wakes up this morning to a miserable, gloomy day, drizzle and thick fog rolling over the sea. She hops out of bed, goes about her chores and her routine, and it’s not until the skies clear, not until she’s boarding the ship that she spots the dragon head in the bow, and she realizes.

She’s stopped wondering too.

* * *

She’s nineteen when the chief comes knocking.

By the time he leaves, she’s engaged to his son.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figures I would struggle with the first chapter for three months and then sit down and just vomit the entire chapter from 1 am to 6 am.  
> I cannot explain how much I struggled with this beginning. The entire story is outlined, and it should have been easy but boy, did it give me a hard time. It stuck its feet in the mud and wouldn’t let me drag the plot forward. I’m still not fully happy with it, but I figure published is better than perfect.

Astrid wakes up to a pair of tiny, smelly feet pushed right up to her face and a smack to the stomach from a deceptively strong skinny limb. The sun is up, the birds are screeching, and downstairs her mother is making a racket in the kitchen while Old Aunt Britta preaches loudly about something or other. And yet, nephew and niece seem to be perfectly immune to the noise.

Once upon a time, Astrid had shared this very same bed with her sisters. The three of them had curled together under the furs, huddling for warmth. Dagmar, the spitfire, sharing outrageous stories about travelers and distant lands and all the boys she would kiss in the winter festival, while Solveig turned her back to them and pretended to sleep. Solveig had been married over ten years now, and Astrid didn’t feel her loss as keenly, but Dagmar’s giggles and ridiculous bedtime stories were sorely missed.

Unlike her nephew’s stinky feet and niece’s dynamic sleeping patterns. She loved the little terrors, but she could honestly say she hadn’t had a decent night sleep since Oden turned three and was relegated to youngest unmarried daughter, auntie Astrid’s room.

Sometimes, being youngest unmarried auntie Astrid sucked.

She expertly extricates herself from the tangle of limbs and warm small-sized humans, tugs Runa’s arms off her, jumps over Oden’s upside down form, lands feet first on a frozen floor. It’s mid-winter and colder than a Jotun’s arse out of the comfort of the bed furs, but she resists the temptation to slip right back into them. She has to help mother with chores, and one does not disobey Brunhilda Hofferson when she’s given a direct order.

As if on cue, the woman screams from the other room, “ASTRID, ARE YOU AWAKE?”

She sighs. The day has officially begun and first order of business is chopping firewood. Outside. In the freezing cold.

Once upon a time she would have jumped to do it. She would have called it “training”. She would have challenged her brother on who could chop more lumber and faster.

That was before Rurik got married, popped out kids and got too busy being a responsible adult and the Hofferson heir to train with her. That was before the dragons vanished, after the village forgot all about them. She hasn’t got much need for training nowadays.

She slips into her boots and tugs a heavy wool tunic over her head, unraveling and re-braiding her hair as she walks out of the small makeshift bedroom where her nephew and niece still sleep, blissfully unaware of the sun shining weakly in their sleet colored sky. When she walks into the main living space, Old Aunt Britta is trying very hard to rope Brunhilda into an argument about the chopping of the vegetables for the stew, but Brunhilda has had years to learn how to tune elder Hofferson out, she soldiers on, chopping and dumping the turnips into the clay pot.

She doesn’t even look up from her task when Astrid walks in. “Mornin’, lass. There are leftovers on the table. Your axe is by the door.”

“Mornin’, ma. Aunt Britta,” she greets, grabbing the bowl with yesterday’s soup and taking a big gulp, which proves to be a mistake, because the soup has turned to a thick slush in the time it took her to come out. “Uck! It’s cold.”

“It would not be if you’d woken up on time.”

She lets the jab slide, and looks around for her father and brother, but they’re nowhere to be seen. “Where are da and Rurik?”

“They’re out at the harbor, waitin’ out the fog. If you hurry you might still catch them.”

She ignores how cold the grub is then, just downs it in one go and rushes outside, grabbing her axe on her way. She doesn’t want to miss the boats, if she’s out there helping her father and brother she can beg out of babysitting the little ones and playing companion to her newly pregnant sister-in-law. The woman can’t keep a bite of bread down and does not shut up about the woes of motherhood.

 _More nephews._ She thinks with exasperation. The two that live with her give her enough trouble as it is. She is not excited for another six months waiting for the bairn to sleep through the night. It feels like only yesterday Runa stopped crying every single night and vomiting twice a day.

Nothing for it, though. The only way out of Hofferson Hall is through marriage, and her father hasn’t come out with a contract yet. Astrid knows she’s getting older and closer to the point of no escape, but she feels she’s got at least another year before Aunt Britta pushes the matter and her parents cannot refuse. Her mother needs help with the children while Ulla is incapacitated – as her sister-in-law insists on referring to her pregnancy.

She snorts to herself. “Insufferable spoiled brat,” she cusses, raising the axe over her head and letting it swing down, splitting the firewood with a satisfying crack and thump, thoughts of contracts already far away.

Astrid does her best to hurry through the task, but her lazy oaf of a brother had procrastinated the chore the entire week and the firewood pile is taller than her. It’s not difficult, but it’s a tedious, slow process, and she loses herself in the task. By the time she finishes she realizes the dampness on her skin is entirely sweat – the fog had cleared while she worked. The boats will have left by now, even if she starts running right that instant.

She can’t help an annoyed groan from escaping. Looks like a day full of household chores.

“ASTRID!” and that was Aunt Britta.

These Hofferson women had impeccable timing.

“I’M NOT FINISHED!” she yells back.

“LEAVE IT, GET OVER HERE AND HELP YOUR AUNT SORT THE LAUNDRY.”

“IT’S NOT EVEN FREYA’S DAY!”

“DON’T TALK BACK TO YOUR ELDERS, YOU DAFT GIRL, GET INSIDE!”

Astrid cusses under her breath. Aunt Britta was the only elder the Hoffersons had left, and she made sure to constantly remind them. The woman had last lost half her marbles and spent the one half she still had command over on the pursuit of driving the entire clan crazy.

“That old saggy nuisance—“ she huffed, wiping the sweat in her brow with the back of her arm, picking up her axe with one hand and an armful of firewood with the other, heading back inside into the everyday domestic fray.

* * *

Astrid manages to escape Hofferson Hall close to lunch. Brunhilda had grabbed her by the arm, dragged her away from a screeching and thundering Britta, and shoved a cloth-wrapped package in her hands. At Astrid’s inquisitive look, her mother rolled her eyes and shooed her with “Take this to Dagmar and don’t let anyone see you.” Which was enough for Astrid if it got her away from aunt Britta and her wack chores. She’d practically ran out the door. It’d been naïve of her to think that chopping firewood in the freezing cold would be the worst part of her morning; Aunt Britta had dragged her off to sort laundry – dirty laundry. She insisted it was imperative the laundry be sorted _before_ wash day, and Astrid had no idea what kind of sorting method she’d been using, because no matter where she dumped the smelly clothes, Aunt Britta berated her, occasionally going as far as whacking her with her walking stick.

Astrid had been about to smother the old woman with a pair of stockings when her mother had shouted for her.

She is so distracted, stewing in her anger over her wasted morning, that she misses entirely the moment Ruffnut literally crawls out of the distant tree line and walks up to her, accompanying her quick strides like she’d been there all along.

“So, did you hear about Hiccup?” Ruffnut asks, and Astrid is not proud to admit she was startled into the next century.

“What the hell, Ruffnut, where did you come from?”

“My mother’s worst nightmares – if she’s told me right. Where were you going so focused?”

“Nowhere—I mean, off to Lunden Hall. Gotta see my sister. I was just thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous. I try to avoid it.”

Astrid glares. “Do be serious.”

“I am. I once thought so hard I got a headache. Wouldn’t leave for days. Severely incapacitating. I’m careful not to think too hard now. So what was it you were giving yourself a headache over?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started. My crazy aunt is driving me nuts.”

“The hella old one? Looks like a dry carrot?”

“She—does, actually. Did you know she spent the entire morning making me sort dirty laundry…”

“Boring! Don’t care!” Ruffnut cuts her off, and promptly talks over her, “Did you hear about Hiccup?”

Astrid would like to say she didn’t express any particular reaction to Ruffnut’s prompt, but her heart just about jumped in her chest.

No, she hadn’t heard about Hiccup. In fact, she hadn’t heard anything from him for _days_ , because he’d left with the Chief and a dozen volunteers to rescue the fishermen who’d left last Thor’s day and never came back. They all assumed the unfortunate expedition had been caught in the storm that reached their port hours later. They’d all assumed there wouldn’t be anyone to rescue.

Except for Hiccup. She hadn’t been present when he’d pitched the rescue mission, or when he’d asked for volunteers, but he must have been convincing enough to get support. She’d seen their boat leave the harbor three days ago.

If Ruffnut was gossiping about him _now…_

“Is he back?”

“Yeah, boat rolled in right after the fog gave out. Guess what?”

“What?”

“He was right. Them lucky suckers got turned off course and crashed on Sandypit Isle, they were hanging out eating smoked salmon, drinking rainwater. I mean, Boar broke a leg, and Grunt knocked his head, Tuff swears he goes around squawking like a chicken – but that’s a hell of a lot better than kicking the bucket.”

“They were alive?”

“All of them, yeah. Makes you feel bad for writing them off as goners. Anyway, reckon they owe Hiccup big time.”

“That’s… True.”

She shouldn’t have been so surprised. It had been a few years since Hiccup had done anything remotely life threatening. The last time the forge caught on fire wasn’t even his fault – Gobber had been experimenting with a new metal and lost control of the fire. In fact, Hiccup had been involved only in the process of putting it _out._

Astrid thinks back to the Hiccup they’d known most their lives – Stoick’s little disaster. Thinks of the times when his plans were followed by explosions, shouts of “FIRE” and the Chief half dragging his son home while the boy chattered away a mix of apologies and sarcasm. It’s strange to not expect chaos from him. It’s stranger still to see his efforts come to fruition, when he’s still the most unorthodox heir the Hooligans have ever had the misfortune to be dumped with.

He’s done good things before. But some of those things had been very strange.

Diverting the river to water the crops? That was brilliant, but it was _weird._ And it’d gained him as much disapproval as it did praise. Taking the trip to Healer’s island that one time the Chief had been sick had been very brave, but it was also very _risky –_ he could have come back with half the men who’d left; he might have not come back at all. He’d fixed the great hall when the storm destroyed part of the roof – but he’d done it with _metal_. The builders were baffled, and half the town just took to complaining about the noise when it rained.

This time wasn’t different. He’d saved six men’s lives, but he’d pitched a crazy idea. For all they knew, it was a useless endeavor – rescue men who were sure to be dead. But he’d gotten volunteers, he’d gone on his quest and against all odds, he’d come back with six survivors and his rescue crew intact.

He is such a contradiction, their heir. Even when he does right, it’s done so strangely, the village doesn’t seem to know what to make of it.

Even so, something small and timid unfurls in her chest, something that had lodged there against her wishes, years ago, when they were kids, when he was weird and she couldn’t stop watching him. It’s warm and satisfied, something a bit like… Pride.

He’s come a long way from Hiccup the useless, a long way from Stoick’s little disaster. Even if all he manages to elicit out of his peers is a strangled little laugh and a head scratch, followed by a ‘Good lad. Strange though’.

“He’s really changed,” it’s what she manages to answer.

“Well, _I’m_ disappointed. I liked it when he fucked up,” her chaotic friend laments.

“Of course you did, oh servant of Loki.” Astrid rolls her eyes. “Where are you heading anyway?”

“Eh… I’m supposed to be helping my dad find a sheep, but I know he won’t. I dyed it black last night and Haldor thought it was one of his.”

“Ruffnut! You lost your dad a sheep?”

“He’ll live, he’s got plenty. Also, when he finds out Haldor’s got his sheep he’s gonna flip!” she finishes that thought with a cackle, and Astrid thinks it’s better to not even ask.

“Don’t you want to go bug someone else while I do my boring, mundane chores?”

“I could, Astrid, I tried, but the boys are hunting and I hate old people. So I’ll tag along if you don’t mind.”

“Even if I did you’d just ignore me. But don’t get me in trouble.”

“Me? Get you in trouble? Perfect Astrid Hofferson? Honorable daughter extraordinaire? The VERY BEST example of a dutiful model citizen? I would never!”

She can’t help but laugh. “Oh, shut up. Just keep your hands to yourself and don’t speak too loud, Dagmar’s mother-in-law is a witch.”

They are welcomed into Lunden Hall by one of Dagmar’s brother-in-laws, the small one, who barely reaches Astrid’s shoulder. He stares up at them in complete silence, a frown twisting his features, squaring his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself bigger.

“I need to talk to my sister,” Astrid doesn’t bother with niceties if this kid is gonna play it like this.

“Mother says no visits.”

“Well, _my_ mother says ‘go and talk to your sister’ and you don’t want Brunhilda Hofferson to come here and pull on your ears, do you?”

Astrid isn’t sure what Dagmar has been saying about their mother, but the kid takes a second to think, seems to connect the dots, and then blanches. He takes a step back to let them through. “She’s in the back. Be quick.” And then scampers away.

“Yikes, and you said _his_ mother was a witch.”

“She might still run us out in a few minutes, reserve your judgment.”

Dagmar was indeed at the back, kneading dough with a violence Astrid was usually known for. She looked frazzled, dark honey curls escaping from her marriage braids, flour nearly up to her elbows. Astrid feels a small pang of longing in her chest at the sight – she still remembers when it was the two of them back in Hofferson Hall, sharing the chore of making bread and mocking Aunt Britta behind her back, talking shit about Solveig’s stuck up husband and wondering when the Lunden boy would finally grow some balls and ask for her hand.

Nowadays Astrid made bread while Ulla sat back patting her twisting stomach and bemoaning the woes of motherhood while Aunt Britta kept up a running monologue about everything Astrid was doing wrong.

When Dagmar finally looks up at them, she opens the big, happy smile that had comforted Astrid through most of her childhood, and promptly forgets the dough, walking around the table towards Astrid with sticky fingers and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Oh, my darling sister! How wonderful of you to visit!”

“Don’t even, get those dirty paws away from me!”

“Is that a way to talk to your dearest older sister, you brat? Come here and give me a hug!”

“Get out!”

She makes a half-hearted attempt to escape the hug, but the embarrassing truth was that she wanted it, so she let Dagmar wrestle her into a rather suffocating hug, patting her face with those dough-sticky fingers.

“There, there, was that too bad?” she says, grinning wildly while Astrid wipes her cheeks.

“Yes, yes, it was.”

“You’re both gross,” Ruffnut comments, nose twisting.

“What was that, Ruffnut? Are you missing out on sisterly affection? I can spread the love,” Dagmar teases, and Ruffnut just about jumps a foot back.

“We don’t do hugging in Thorston Hall. We trust no one,” she says dramatically, wiggling her fingers in the air in their direction.

“Good for you,” is Dagmar’s dismissive reply, and then she turns back to her sister. “What brings you here, Astrid?”

“Mother sent me with this.” She fishes the small cloth-wrapped package from her pouch.

Dagmar’s eyes shine, and she snatches it right out of her hands, stuffing it down her collar while glancing around, as if to make sure no one would see her. Once satisfied it was well hidden, she winked at Astrid and patted her cheek approvingly. “Good woman, our mother. Thank her for me.”

“Yuck.” Astrid wipes her cheek once again. “What’s that anyway?”

“Married women, only, lovey,” she chirps, stops, looks Astrid in the eye dead serious and whispers, “unless you’ve got some boy under your skirt that you haven’t told me about, in which case I’ll hand this back to you.”

Astrid is pretty sure her face has gone flaming red. The tea, of course. “Oh. _That’s_ what it is.”

“And that’s a no. Good girl,” she coos jokingly, and turns to give Ruffnut a once over. “And you?”

“Ew no, ain’t no one on this island good enough for this goddess of chaos,” Ruffnut preens, pointing at herself.

“Bless your heart,” Dagmar waves her off.

“But why are you taking that crap anyway? You’re married. I thought you married nuts were all about babies.”

Dagmar snorts. “Are you daft? I’ve got twins in the next room, screaming night and day, one after the other, when I quiet one down, the other starts, and when one starts the other follows, I’m losing my mind here, I will not survive another set any time soon. Bless your mother,” she adds, off-handed to Ruffnut, “Here’s to hoping mine won’t turn out like hers.”

“That was offensive, Dagmar. I didn’t know you had it in you. I’m almost proud,” she replies.

“Ack! Sorry, Ruffnut, I’ve spent too long around the witch. Was that all, Astrid? Do you want to sit and chat for a bit while that wench is out?

“Are you sure it’s ok? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Dagmar laughs. “Don’t worry, dear. She likes to yell, my mother-in-law, but I can yell just as loud, and quicker too. She’s got nothing on Aunt Britta. Do sit down, tell me what the old bat has been up to.”

They talk about this morning, and last week, when their aunt had insisted on cooking dinner and had nearly poisoned them all, about Ulla’s new pregnancy and the children’s shenanigans, how remarkably little their parents’ antics had changed over the years. Dagmar tells her of her latest shouting match with her mother-in-law and assures Astrid that despite the witch, she liked Lunden Hall very much. Everyone else was of a calm and kind nature, and Ivarr had always been smitten with her, but since the children he’s pretty much been treating her like a queen.

Astrid believes it. Dagmar wears her heart on her sleeve, affection and displeasure showing equally clear in her expressive face. She couldn’t lie to her if she tried. And her sister looks tired, yes, twin babies would do that to anyone. But she looks content. Happy. And Astrid misses her something fierce, everyday, but it soothes her heart to see her so well.

Ruffnut handles their chatting remarkably well, considering. She bounces her legs, stands and walks around the room, sits back down, but only occasionally interjects with “BORING! Can’t you talk about something else?”. Astrid is surprised she stuck around at all, and she thinks she’d better get a move on before her friend gets even more restless and decides to explore the house – and leave a little explosive gift behind. So she says her goodbyes to Dagmar, wishes the babies well, and drags Ruffnut out.

“Well, I can’t say that was riveting conversation, but it beats looking for sheep or hanging out with the old balls,” Ruffnut says, raising her arms up in the air to stretch her back as if she’d been under some great strain.

“I’ll remind you I never asked you to come in the first place.”

“And leave my best girl alone to face the possible wrath of the Lunden Witch? Never, Astrid.”

“Yeah, yeah…. Anyway, I’m heading home.”

“Ugh, I probably have to go find my dad. Pretend I was searching for the sheep.”

“You wouldn’t be in this predicament if you hadn’t painted that sheep black in the first place. What _were_ you thinking?”

“Loki moves in mysterious ways, Astrid, I don’t question it. I’m a blind faithful servant.”

Astrid rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at her lips. “One day, Ruff, you’re going to grow up and become a responsible adult, and you’ll be straightest, most boring one of us all.”

Ruffnut gasps dramatically. “You take that back, Hofferson, they ain’t catching me alive!”

* * *

There is a feast in the great hall that night, to celebrate the return of the missing fishermen. There is mutton, and venison, and lamb stew, and Helga has brought out the mead, which means a while later Sven brought out his flute and soon enough Gobber was belting out some bawdy song about a fisherman and his ugly wife.

The Chief is a merry presence at the center of festivities; his booming voice heard from across the hall as he relays the tale of their surprisingly successful rescue. He makes sure to stress how it was all Hiccup’s idea, and how his boy had been essential to their safe return. Astrid figures there’s some embellishment to it, but she can’t fault him for that. Not long ago, he would have nothing to brag about.

Hiccup himself, though, is nowhere to be seen.

She’s standing alone by the wall, near enough her parents can call to her if needed, and far enough away she can ignore Ulla’s whining and Rurik’s drunken antics. Her brother is no accomplished singer, but he looks like he’s one cup away from getting up and joining Gobber, and she’s torn between hiding from the cringy experience or staying to make sure he would never forget such humiliation.

That’s when she first hears it. A hushed murmur coming from the next table. A guffaw breaking out and being snuffed quickly by an elbow. Exchanges doubtful and dismissive – mocking. She can’t quite hear what they are saying, but it’s enough to pique her curiosity, because… Because what little she can hear, over the loudness of a hundred chattering Vikings, is ‘Chief’ and ‘Hiccup’ and ‘heir’.

Her eyes roam the tables, trying to pin point the culprits, trying to pick up on the rest of the conversation. She half expects it to be Ruffnut spreading rumors, but when she realizes just where the sound is coming from, she cannot help the surprise.

They’re council members. Elder Ingerman and Elder Erikssen. They’re looking right at the chief. And if she concentrates enough… And walks a bit closer… She can pick up…

“D’you reckon Stoick will do it now?” Ingerman asks.

“Aye. I would, if I were him. Good time to strike.”

“He’d need some training first, boy is as green as they come. But we could do worse.”

“You’ll endorse it then?”

“Ha! No one would have said it coupla years ago. I’d think you mad to suggest it. But aye. I do believe he’d make a fine chief, with time.”

“And a wife!” the other man adds, and they both guffaw, oblivious of their audience.

Astrid cannot, for the life of her, explain her sharp intake of breath, and the quickening of her heartbeat, and the wave of nausea that rolls her stomach has nothing to do with the mead she drank.

Her feet carry her away from the great hall before she even realizes she’s moved.

Of course.

_Of course._

It makes sense.

She’s been watching him. She’s been watching him for a long time. She’s seen him turn from that freckled, gap-toothed little boy to the sarcastic string-bean who couldn’t get anything right. She’s seen the village turn against him, seen him cast aside and shoved into the smithy to be forgotten. She’s seen—

She’s seen the dragons vanish – and the life she knew with them. She’d seen war end and Hiccup… change.

“It was only a matter of time,” she tells herself, trying to squash the rising emotions under her boot like one would a pest.

He’s the heir. He’s the heir, and the war is over, and he’s not… Useless. He’s not useless anymore. Not in the eyes of his tribe. He’d led men to healer’s island last winter, he’d repaired the great hall’s roof, he’d found a way to water their crops in the summer, to protect them from the cold. And he was still strange, he was still different, but it didn’t matter anymore, not if he could get the job done. He’s weak but he’s clever; strange, but harmlessly so. He can’t fight, but he doesn’t need to. Not anymore.

She knows what the Chief is thinking because she’s been in the same frame of mind since he’d stood in his father’s place in the Great Hall and drew up a map, ordered provisions, left Spitelout in charge (and took Gobber aside, told him to keep his uncle in check). She’d been stuck looking after a sick mother and sisters, but she would have followed him.

She would follow him – when he was chief.

She knew what the chief was thinking because it was what the entire tribe had been thinking for the past couple of months.

Hiccup would never be the heir they wanted, but… He’d do. All he needed was lessons, time – and a wife.

* * *

She barely sleeps that night.

She tosses and turns, falls asleep for what feels like minutes, only to wake up with heart racing and sweat in her brow, the remnants of a nightmare still clinging to her foggy mind.

She can’t push away that overheard conversation from last night.

And what is more infuriating about the whole thing is: it’s none of her business.

It’s none of her business if the Chief decides to train Hiccup, to make him chief. It’s none of her business if he’s out there right now looking for a respectable wife to make his strange heir more worthy in the eyes of their tribe. She has no reason to feel like her heart will shoot right out of her mouth.

Who knows if those old men were even telling the truth? Just because _they_ thought it was a good moment to announce the succession, didn’t mean the chief agreed. He was still young. He had some time left in him. And Hiccup’s stand was still a bit doubtful in the village, no matter how great his accomplishments. She’d been thinking exactly that all day, hadn’t she? About the stream, and the metal in the roof and—And a wife? Really? Who in the world would the Chief choose?

Astrid wasn’t exactly privy to the affairs of the ruling family’s succession, or anything of the sort, but I mean. Hiccup was an _heir_ , he might as well marry some wealthy second daughter from another tribe. Who _would_ he marry otherwise?

They didn’t have that many girls around his age to pick from. She hardly thinks the Chief would pick one of the milk maids, no matter how charming or respectable. The Haddocks were a warrior clan, even if their heir couldn’t lift an axe and had caused more damage to his own tribe than to the dragons. That didn’t matter. The fact that there _weren’t_ dragons anymore hardly would either.

And there were only two shield maidens Hiccup’s age in Berk.

She’s so distressed by that possibility she tosses in the bed and accidentally kicks Oden’s chin, which wakes her small nephew up and immediately starts the waterworks – which wakes Runa up and she starts fussing because she’s confused, and she’s soon got two sniveling toddlers in her arms and entirely too frazzled nerves to deal with them.

By the time she calms them down she’s so tired even her mind cannot keep her up anymore.

She falls into a fitful sleep, and this time no nightmare about faceless brides and golden rings can wake her.

* * *

When Astrid opens her eyes she knows immediately there is something wrong.

The sun creeping in through the window is much stronger than it is supposed to be, she usually wakes up at dawn, when there’s barely any sunlight at all. And what’s more, she doesn’t feel the warmth and the weight of two tiny bodies sprawled on top of her, and she usually has to detangle herself from their limbs to leave the bed. If even Oden and Runa are awake and roaming the house… She’s way past her time to get up.

Her mother doesn’t usually let her sleep in, she would have come bounding into her corner of the house banging pots and yelling at her to get her arse moving.

Something is wrong.

She throws the furs back and pulls her warm tunic over her head, slips into her boots lightning fast, and rushes out to find out what is wrong. The sunlight is even stronger in the main room and she cannot believe she’s slept in this late. Can’t believe her mother would let her. It makes the feeling of wrongness even more prominent.

“Mother!” she yells out.

Thankfully, there is a quick response from the back of the house. “In here, Astrid!”

She rushes towards her mother, noticing for the first time how quiet the house has gotten. Hofferson Hall is never quiet. There are children running, Ulla complaining, Old Aunt Britta nagging away about—

Oh. Oh, gods. Could it be?

When she emerges into the kitchen there is no one to be seen aside from her parents. They are sitting side by side at the table, faces grim and determined.

“What’s going on?”

“Sit down, daughter. We need to talk,” her father grunts.

Her mother takes a deep breath, as if gathering strength, and opens her mouth to deliver the news, but Astrid beats her to it. “Aunt Britta died, didn’t she?”

“What? No!” Brunhilda says, clearly baffled at her outburst.

“We wish,” Arvid mumbles.

“Well, what was I supposed to think? I wake up late, the entire house is quiet, you’re both sitting there looking like somebody died!”

“We don’t… It’s not like that, Astrid,” her mother reassures her, and there’s something in the corner of her mouth, like she’s trying to keep herself from smiling, like she’s actually rather pleased about something that gives Astrid pause.

“Father?” she asks, uncertainly, because Brunhilda was practical but Arvid was downright blunt. If anyone was going to explain it to her was her father.

But even Arvid seemed a bit at loss. “Well. Your mother is right, daughter.”

“I would say it’s actually… Rather good news,” Brunhilda says, and she finally allows some of the smile she’s been holding to show through. She reaches out to place her hand over Arvid’s, and they allow themselves an exchanged smile, hands entwined, a rare public display of affection.

And she knows.

Yesterday comes rushing back to her like a crashing wave in the middle of a storm.

The fishermen coming home, the Chief bragging in the great hall, the conversation she’d overheard. The hours she’d spent tossing in bed overthinking. She’d known it was a possibility, but she’d hoped… Or maybe she hadn’t.

She thought it’d be a foreigner.

She hadn’t thought… It didn’t make any sense…

Did it?

“Father… It’s me, isn’t it?” she breathes out, dread and fear swirling in her heart, anxiety taking over and spreading all over her belly like coldness, “Hiccup’s contract. It’s me.”

Her parents are startled. “Who told you?” her father grunts.

She laughs, but there is nothing funny in this conversation. It’s breathless and a little bit weak, a little bit disbelieving. “Who didn’t, father? The entire village has been in a tizzy since he rescued the fishermen, all the elders talk about is him. If the Chief is gonna train him for real, there’s really only one thing he’s missing for succession. If it wasn’t some foreign heiress… It was gonna be Ruff or me.”

Her father snorts. “Of course.”

“Chief came by early this morn,” her mother confirms, “Offered his boy’s hand for yours.”

“Was plenty generous too,” her father grunts.

“Arvid, shut your gob.” Brunhilda rolls her eyes. “This is important.”

The Chief had come to her house. He’d been here while she slept, talked to her parents, offered Hiccup’s hand.

She was the bride. She was the faceless bride in the nightmares that kept her up all night.

She would marry _Hiccup_.

If her parents agreed.

“What are you going to say?” she asks, tries to swallow the knot that has formed in her throat. She will not scream, will not cry, she will not behave like the nervous wreck she feels, even though it feels like her whole life is hanging on the answer.

Her father is a blunt man, with the emotional capacity of a yak, as her mother often complained, but even he knows to be gentle with news that would change his daughter’s life forever. He swallows, scratches his beard, looks at his wife like he’s searching for assistance. But at the end of the day the decision was his. Brunhilda could offer her thoughts, Rurik could even pitch in with his opinion, and they could ask Astrid, but even if she was against it, even if she screamed day and night until she was blue in the face, there was nothing any of them could do if Arvid said yes.

He exhaled loudly, turned his clear blue eyes onto his youngest daughter. His youngest unmarried daughter. His last charge. His last duty.

“I want to accept it, Astrid. To be frank, it’s unlikely we’ll ever get a better offer. It will be good for us, and it will be good for you.” He takes a deep breath, and she knows before he says it what he’s going to ask. “So what do you say, daughter?”

What could she say?

If he wanted to accept the offer, there was nothing she could do.

She’s the last unmarried Hofferson daughter. The dragons are gone, they have no great use for a shield maiden, certainly not so much that delaying a marriage seemed plausible and frankly – she’s getting old. Her sisters and brothers are settled, married with children of their own, and after two daughters and a son, her family has very little fortune to spare for her dowry.

And winter… Hasn’t been kind. Their crops did mediocre last harvest, and there’s only so much fishing they could get in before devastating winter sets in. Brunhilda has started rationing the grains. And Astrid tries to ignore it, but she’s been wearing her sisters’ hand-me-downs for years now, stitched together beyond capacity. She thinks about the bed she has to share with her nephews and her brother’s new baby and Aunt Britta making her life hell. There were a lot of mouths to feed. And if the Chief is offering her dad a good contract…

She thinks about her sisters, living away on their husbands’ houses. Thinks about visiting Dagmar yesterday and watching her make bread for another family, complain about her mother-in-law, about how tired she was, but how happy she looked. She thinks about Rurik rolling his eyes at his whiny wife, but smiling at her nonetheless. She thinks about her own parents – two practical souls, with little passion to show, but consistent in their partnership. Loyal to one another and their family, affection in their silent smiles.

It didn’t have to be bad, marriage.

Marrying _Hiccup_ didn’t have to be bad.

She takes a page out of her parents’ book and decides to be _practical_.

He’s the heir.

It’s clear, now, more than ever, that the Chief has every intention to train him to be the next chief. She would be the next chief’s wife – with all the duties and privileges that brought. She would need to help him keep the villagers in check, be an advisor, perhaps even a spy. She’d also never wear a hand-me-down again, never eat the same stale bread for an entire week, never go cold in the winter. She would be respected beyond what limited status shield-maiden had gotten her back when – before.

And Haddock Hall… Well. It was just the two of them. Astrid had grown up with three siblings, grandparents, old aunts and uncles, a cousin or two hanging around, her house had never been anything but noisy and full. It would be strange, having a house so empty, but it also meant she could do what she pleases. She feels rather horrible for thinking it, but she wouldn’t even have a mother-in-law to breathe down her neck and tell her she’s doing everything wrong. She’d be the only woman in the house – the keys would be hers. Although… Every chore would be hers too. But then again, they were only two.

Three, if she said yes.

He wouldn’t be a difficult husband, she thinks. If there’s anything she remembers from watching him – incessantly – all those years, was that he was very…

Kind.

He was very kind.

He would treat her with respect. She can’t imagine him bragging to the winds that he’s bagged Berk’s prized shield-maiden. Can’t imagine him belittling her because she was his wife now. Can’t imagine him raising his voice to her. If anything he’d be an idiot mumbling sarcastic remarks at her from across the room and she could deal with that.

She could deal with that.

She thinks about those green eyes, and the freckles smattered on his nose, thinks about all those times she’d snuck into the forge to get her axe sharpened and saw him laughing freely with Gobber, happy and warm and just a little bit beautiful. She thinks about all those times she stared at him from across the great hall, the town, the forge window, all these years she’s been watching him, couldn’t stop watching if she tried – and she’d tried. She thinks about that proud, timid little something that unfurled in her chest, that little something that kept commandeering her attention, made her notice him every time, for better or worse.

Her heart is thumping a mile a minute in her chest, and her mind is racing, and all she can think of is that time with healer’s island, that proud man standing in the great hall, commanding his tribesmen for the first time, compelling them to follow him.

She tries to imagine another woman standing beside him and—No. There won’t be another woman.

She feels a strange kind of peace settle over her as she finally makes her decision, and she tells her father with a confidence she hadn’t known she possessed.

“Sign the contract, father. I’ll marry him.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've seen, I've given Astrid a big sort of poor family lol It just worked with my story. And we finally get our glimpse into their engagement. I'm still wondering if I should make chapters in Hiccup's POV at all, I feel like I do Astrid much better. And I don't think I want to know what's going on in his head. Astrid is more interesting. Do let me know your opinion though.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry. Next chapter we'll delve deeper into the whole "by the time he leaves she's engaged to his son" thing. We'll see that scene play out.  
> It just felt like the right moment to end the chapter. With a bang.  
> Hope you enjoyed this... world-setting, we'll call it. And I hope you will keep reading and enjoy the story!


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